


Break the Walls, I'm Coming Out

by Ziggy_Scardust



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: After fleeing Hogwarts, Camden Town, Gen, Heavy Metal, Historically Accurate, Iron Maiden - Freeform, London in the 90s, Punk Rock, Sirius Black saw the Ramones one last time, Sirius gets to enjoy himself for once, Summer of '94
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2021-01-24 03:08:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21331276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ziggy_Scardust/pseuds/Ziggy_Scardust
Summary: Break the walls, I'm coming outI'm not a prisoner, I'm a free man,And my blood is my own now.Don't care where the past was,I know where I'm going.I'm not a number, I'm a free man,I'll live my life how i want to.You'd better scratch mefrom your black book,'Cause I'll run rings around you.- Iron Maiden, "The Prisoner"
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	Break the Walls, I'm Coming Out

**Author's Note:**

> Break the walls, I'm coming out  
I'm not a prisoner, I'm a free man,  
And my blood is my own now.  
Don't care where the past was,  
I know where I'm going.  
I'm not a number, I'm a free man,  
I'll live my life how i want to.  
You'd better scratch me  
from your black book,  
'Cause I'll run rings around you.
> 
> \- Iron Maiden, "The Prisoner"

It was dawn; the sun was up early now in summer, making the thick London air glow palely as the city began to stir. Sirius slid from Buckbeak’s back on the sheltered roof of the only building with a fire-escape staircase on the outside, somewhere in Muswell Hill. He transformed; he could no longer tell if Padfoot’s brain was slowing him down, or he was just exhausted. It would be easier to plan his next move as a man, but his face had been on the Muggle news. He sighed, and padded down the stairs of the fire escape.

  
After twelve years, the metallic tang of the London mist still rested on his tongue, reminding him of the dank square in front of Grimmauld Place. It was missing something - something like petrol, or cigarettes, something to burn through the heavy smell. He inhaled deeply as an idea formed.

  
Camden Town. Of course. This was hardly the time to wander an unfamiliar neighborhood, but he knew Camden Town well enough, after so many excursions with Lily’s Muggle friends. And in Camden Town, they had blended in easily enough, hadn’t they? No one took any notice of someone wearing a cloak, or dragon-hide boots, or watches with moving planets around there. Half the people around had seemed to be engaged in some sort of illegal activity; it seemed unlikely any of them would call the Muggle police about his resemblance to an escaped prisoner. If he had to be human, best to do it there.

  
He consulted an Underground map posted on a board, trotting away quickly when a hangdog group of commuters approached, and returning back up the stairs as quietly as he could, so as not to wake the Muggles. Buckbeak was looking hungrily up at the pigeons overhead.  
For a moment, he wondered what to do - he could hardly leave a Hippogriff on a Muggle roof, but couldn’t conceal him in the city either. He transformed back into a man, trying to make it easier to remember the lay of the land in the city. There had been a park, not far from Camden Town, he knew that much, but his memories of that park had been fuzzy with alcohol long before the Dementors had got hold of him. Still, it ought to work. It was a weekday, and the parks would be empty of people, but full of creatures Buckbeak would probably consider edible. And he, Sirius, needed to eat as well, didn’t he? And he needed to find a wizard post office, some Muggle clothes, and a way out of the country. 

  
He untied Buckbeak from the bit of piping, climbed on his back once more, and leaned forward, nudging him to take off one more time.  
He found the park more easily than he had expected, and in the hazy emptiness of the early morning, managed to land unseen in a clump of trees, well away from the footpaths. He led Buckbeak deeper into the trees, and tethered him carefully out of sight; Buckbeak immediately snatched a squirrel from the tree and settled down to eat it. Satisfied he was well hidden, Sirius transformed back into a dog, and slowly, wearily, he made his way the last bit west, along the quietest streets he could find, until the sounds of motorbikes started to drown out the sounds of cars and buses, and the air smelled more smoky than metallic.

  
The sounds were different now, and the air smelled more of cannabis than it had before. The motorbikes were smaller, and made higher-pitched noises, and seemed to make less of the black, choking fog that his own had, before he had modified it. The music was different; it was still early in the morning, but already he could hear a beat thudding from a bar nearby. It was faster, and somehow artificial, almost tinny - the sign above the door read “Acid - Rave - Cheap Drinks”. The door, however, was shut. He continued for a bit, until he passed a small shop advertising cheap leather jackets. He toyed with the notion of taking one - the girl in the shop had stepped outside to smoke - until he saw the skip behind the shop, with a torn jacket in the corner. He pulled the sleeve down with his teeth, and dragged it behind the skip. It didn’t taste of leather, but some other, oily material. Still, it was more substantial than his Azkaban robes, and would render him nearly invisible on this street.  
He managed to climb up into the skip, after a few failed attempts, smelling cotton and other materials inside. The jacket had burst from a sack of clothes ripped, burned by cigarettes or stained - the castoffs, apparently, from the shop. He managed to find a pair of black jeans, but no shirts of any sort; he would have to rip off the top of his robes and wear that.

  
He spent some time behind the skip, transforming several times over, ripping his robes and donning his new wardrobe. Nothing seemed to fit, with only his protruding hip bones keeping the jeans from falling down. It would have to do; perhaps he could try some wandless magic later, once he’d had some food.  
_Food._ He ought to have stolen something earlier, before the street was bathed in daylight and crowded with people. There was nothing for it now, though. He donned the jacket, knotted his hair back - it was long and matted enough to tie around itself, now - and stepped out from behind the skip, every moment fearing someone would stop him, or recognize him. Hastily, he snatched a pair of crooked sunglasses from the pile of discarded clothing, took a deep breath, and stepped out onto the pavement.

  
No one had noticed; the street was packed, with hundreds of people looking, if at all possible, even scruffier than he did. Gaunt teenage girls with black eyeliner, boys with blue hair, and here and there some older adults, wearing the familiar safety pins in their ears and leather jackets like his, though much more worn. He shoved his hands deep in his pockets, looked down to avoid eye contact, and walked with the crowd, casting sidelong glances here and there, not entirely sure what he was looking for.  
And then he spotted a scrap of paper with pale blue printing on it, falling out of the pocket of a gangly teen with spiked hair some paces ahead. It blew in the wind a moment, and Sirius stopped to pick it up - Muggle money. He hadn’t seen any in years, and the design was different, and who knew how much it would buy, but it was something. He glanced at the corner of the paper - £5. He folded it quickly and shoved it in his pocket, not wanting to attract attention. He kept walking, unsure where to go, when he heard a very familiar voice.

  
_“Hey ho, let’s go! Hey ho, let’s go!”_  
The music jerked him back abruptly, eighteen years ago, to a memory he had forgotten was in there somewhere, of himself and James and Lily, in a heaving crowd, not far from here, with a few angry-looking boys in jackets just like his, banging on their instruments. The Ramones. It felt strange, now, to hear them again, as if the memories no longer belonged to him. He spotted a radio blaring out the song in the door of a dusty cafe where a man with several rings in his ears was sweeping out the entrance. A sign outside read “Coffee - Sandwich - £2”. He dived sideways out of the crowd. The man grinned at him.  
“Kitchen doesn’t open for another ten minutes, mate,” he said, his accent a rich Cockney. “Stop ‘ere if you like until they do.”  
“Thanks,” muttered Sirius, leaning up against the wall of the cafe. “Haven’t heard this in years,” he said, jerking his head at the radio, “feels like something from another life.”  
“Yeah,” nodded the man, “punk rock’s been on the down and out now for a bit. Shame. Scene ‘ere’s a bit different now.”  
The song ended, and the radio announcer’s voice came over the air.  
_“There’ll be more where that came from later, as we honor the Ramones on their farewell tour - they’ve just announced UK dates, folks! Not until September, though, they’re in Brazil playing Rio de Janeiro for now. Stay tuned, some heavier stuff after the break.”_  
Sirius glanced at the radio. “Farewell tour? Punk’s really on the way out, then.”  
“Told yer,” shrugged the man, “house music’s the new thing around here now. And grunge, if the Yanks keep coming.”  
“Brazil…” repeated Sirius under his breath. There had been an exchange student in the year above from Castelobruxo, going on about how beautiful Brazil was, hot and sunny every day, he had said, complaining about the cold and the damp of Scotland. Brazil would work. Too tropical for Dementors. Far enough away, certainly.  
“Sorry?”  
The man interrupted his thoughts, looking at him quizzically.  
“Nothing,” Sirius answered hastily.  
“Come inside now,” the man gestured in the door, “we’re open.”

  
It was a shabby cafe, with chipped tables, full ashtrays, and a smell of burnt coffee in the air.  
“Coffee and a sandwich, please,” Sirius said, as another man appeared behind the counter.  
“Two quid. We’ve only got ham today.”  
Sirius nodded, and handed over the note. The man gave him three coins in change, one large, with two metals, and the other two seven-sided - the strangest coins he had ever seen. He shoved them quickly in his pocket, and sat down, resolving to examine them later. He waited, a plan forming in his mind. Brazil. He could go there, if he could find a means of transport. Buckbeak wouldn’t be able to fly that far, but there could be a way.

  
The second man’s dirty hand banged down a chipped mug of coffee and a thick ham sandwich on the table in front of him. He downed the coffee in one, suddenly realizing how thirsty he was, as well as hungry. He took a bite of the sandwich, then set it back down.  
“Can I borrow your pen?” he asked, pointing at the ballpoint sticking out of the second man’s apron pocket. The man passed it silently over. Sirius accepted it, then seized a paper serviette from the box on the table, and began to scribble.

  
The bitter coffee seemed to have woken his brain. There had been a story in the Muggle newspaper he’d nicked after escaping, about a carrier pigeon that had landed on a ship and accidentally gone to Brazil. There had to be ships crossing over all the time, probably from Port of London - he and Buckbeak could fly aboard at night, and stow away somewhere. There was a wizard post office near Grimmauld Place, not far from the river. Being seen there would have to be the last thing to do before leaving; he would need to ensure there was a good place to hide and a good way to escape, preferably directly to the Muggle ship. There would be a shipping manifest posted at Port of London, so he would have to go there first, then pick up Buckbeak. He wrote hastily, taking bites of the sandwich held in one hand while scribbling with the other, until the plan made sense.  
He folded the serviette over as the man walked past, and finished his sandwich with satisfaction. Another song was coming over the radio, this one louder, more melodic, much deeper than the Ramones.  
_“Not a prisoner, _  
_I’m a free man, _  
_And my blood is my own now…”_  
Sirius jerked his head at the radio. “What’s this, then?”  
“Iron Maiden,” grunted one of the workers behind the counter. “Best of British Steel. Where you been, mate?”  
Sirius shrugged, but turned over the napkin and wrote down the lyrics.  
_“I’m not a number, _  
_I’m a free man,_  
_I’ll live my life how I want to_  
_You’d better scratch me_  
_From your black book_  
_I know where I’m going.”_


End file.
